The Mannequin’s Invitation

The heat of late August clung to the walls of the old department store like a second skin. It had been closed for years, but the owner, a reclusive man named Mr. Henders, still kept the dusty mannequins dressed in last season’s fashions. My friends and I—Mara, Jules, and I—had dared each other to sneak in after school. We had heard rumors that the place was haunted, but we were bored and looking for a thrill.

We climbed through a broken window in the back, the glass crunching under our sneakers. The air inside was thick with the smell of mothballs and decaying fabric. We wandered through aisles of faded clothing and forgotten displays, our flashlights cutting through the darkness. It was Mara who noticed the door at the end of the main floor, marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY.’ We pushed it open and found a small office, cluttered with old ledgers and a dusty Ouija board on a desk.

‘Let’s try it,’ Jules said, a mischievous grin on her face. Mara hesitated, but I was curious. We sat around the desk, Jules and I with our fingers on the planchette. We asked if anyone was there. The planchette moved to ‘YES.’ We asked who. It spelled out ‘E.L.I.J.A.H.’ Elijah. Not a name we knew.

We asked what he wanted. The planchette moved slowly, spelling ‘C.O.L.D.’ The temperature in the room dropped sharply, and we could see our breath. We pulled our jackets tighter, but the chill seeped into our bones. Elijah said he was a former employee, a stock boy who had died in a fire decades ago. He said he liked the store, didn’t want to leave. He said he wanted company.

We asked if he would hurt us. He said ‘N.O.’ We asked if we could leave. The planchette remained still for a moment, then slid off the board entirely, clattering to the floor. Jules yelped, and we scrambled to pick it up. When we put it back, the board was blank. We tried again, but nothing. We decided to go, but as we stood, the door slammed shut.

We were trapped. We tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The lights flickered. From the main floor, we heard a slow, rhythmic scraping sound, like something dragging across the linoleum. Through the crack under the door, we saw a pair of pale, bare feet approaching. They stopped right outside. The doorknob rattled.

We huddled together, hearts pounding. The feet didn’t move. After a long, agonizing minute, the feet turned and walked away, the scraping fading. We took the chance and wrenched the door open. The store was empty, but all the mannequins had been repositioned. They were now all facing us, arms outstretched, as if welcoming us.

We ran, not stopping until we were outside, gasping for air in the sweltering parking lot. As we caught our breath, Mara pointed at the second-floor window. A single mannequin stood there, wearing a dress that seemed to shimmer. She raised her hand, slowly, deliberately, and pointed at me.

I haven’t been back to that store, but sometimes I see that mannequin in my dreams. She’s always pointing, always patient. Last night, she spoke. She said, ‘Your turn.’ I don’t know what she wants, but I feel her waiting. And I fear that one day, I’ll accept her invitation.